If My Obituary Read "Death by Hummingbird"
It flew from a fruitless thicket
with the speed to fell a Philistine,
a miniscule kamikaze clad in emerald,
ruby and nacre.
And something in the trees sung
like the song a swinging gate would
whistle into the night on hinges weary
and red with rust.
And all of spring seemed to preen
and flaunt peacocky verdure as I thought
these wilds delightful, and a bullet undetected
took flight to call my bluff.